


Untitled Hair Washing Ficlet

by betterrecieved



Category: Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrecieved/pseuds/betterrecieved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>venomedveins asked: I waaaaaaaaaant a fic where they're in the mountains and Nasir's hair is getting super dirty because they ain't got time to collect rain water and shit to wash it. And like, the water they have on them is for drinking. And Nasir's hair starts to dred and Agron notices it and helps him twist it and twist it, but then it reminds him too much of Duro so he finds a tiny pond and takes Nasir to it and makes him wash his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Hair Washing Ficlet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venomedveins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/gifts).



Nasir has no time to make himself lovely, to comb his hair or wash his face; most of remaining refugees seem clueless, directionless and turn to he and Laeta for every small thing, fearful of approaching Agron, who stands formidable despite damaged hands.

Blessed rain falls, but few inches they manage to collect in scavenged vessels is precious, must quench throats parched from endless walking.

Nasir sighs through days of dust, through nights of shaking down his tangled mane and snagging his fingers on hopeless tangles. He will have to cut his hair, there is no saving it now.

He reminds himself that he has his man; it is enough. More than freedom itself it is enough. And Agron has said nothing of his unkempt hair, in danger of turning to matted ropes.

But Nasir does not realize how he frets nightly at slice of broken glass, pouts at his reflection and ties and reties his limp hair until Agron comments upon it. 

"You still possess beauty unmatched. Come here," Agron says, pulls Nasir to sit between his long legs. "I will make locks of your loose hair, as I used to wear mine."

And Nasir brightens at that, that he would wear his hair in style that is constant reminder to Agron of beloved homeland.

New style of hair feels foreign to Nasir, his scalp open to air, heavy twisted sections of hair weighing against his neck and shoulders, falling into his face. He does not look like himself, and worse, he has seen strange look upon Agron’s face when he looks down at him.

As if privy to his thoughts, Laeta assures him that he is lovely as ever, that boundless love Agron possesses for Nasir fills her own heart to overflowing.

But still Nasir catches Agron staring at him as if seeing some unspoken horror, and his stomach lurches and crazes. He has gained his man only to lose him, he has not taken care to preserve what he could of his former beauty in his quest to prove himself as warrior.

"You do not find me comely?" Nasir is on verge of tears, on verge of madness, for they are all of them filthier than ever they have been in rebel encampment, and Agron has not taken him in days. 

"It is not that." And Agron takes Nasir’s grungy body into his filthy arms and Nasir thanks gods of Rome that it is not that, that his man still desires him and his heart can beat without seizing within his chest.

"Then what?" Nasir wonders into Agron’s chest. "You do not reach for me at night, I thought perhaps…"

"It is your hair." Nasir stiffens at Agron’s words, but Agron rubs large circles into his back, and Nasir relaxes into infallible touch like wary feral cat made to feel safe. "It is so like his."

"His?" Nasir does not like to think of where Agron’s cock found comfort before him, of other lovers arching helpless beneath Agron’s bulk. "You gave me hair in style of former love?" he asks, hurt to quick.

"No. Yes. Of brother." Agron drops kiss on Nasir’s dirty forehead while Nasir stands on his toes to wrap arms tight around shoulders of man who rarely mentions brother lost to Roman cruelty.

*

Tiny hidden forest pond holds just water enough for refugee camp, but despite Nasir’s protests, Agron keeps oasis secret. He undresses them both, fills vessel with water and divested clothing. Then he takes Nasir’s hand, leads them to riot of splashing and rubbing and blessed, sorely missed cleanliness. Carefully Agron unravels Nasir’s hair, cradling Nasir’s body to his chest.

Nasir sighs, eyes falling closed at feel of Agron’s big body curved around him, at Agron’s gentle tugging at his scalp, at lukewarm water surrounding him like cushion.

When he opens his eyes, he is still in Agron’s arms, lying on warm grass, bedding and clothing stretched stainless and half-dry all around him. Nasir hears voice calling for him, calling for Laeta, but Agron’s arms tighten, and Nasir’s hand runs through his soft drying hair falling onto his shoulders, eyes falling closed, not needing mirror to know that he is as lovely as first time Agron’s appraising eyes glimpsed his face.


End file.
